


Rising

by kormantic



Category: The Last Unicorn - Peter S. Beagle
Genre: Beginnings, Cheese, Gen, Mentors, Yuletide 2008
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-12-25
Updated: 2008-12-25
Packaged: 2017-12-08 00:37:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/754929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kormantic/pseuds/kormantic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schmendrick shrank from accepting yet another job to fail at, knowing what Nikos did not: the crackers had been an attempt at brioche.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rising

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandlion](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sandlion).



> Thanks to siriaeve and Mr. Pants for a little handholding and a lot of kindness.

Contrary to popular opinion, Schmendrick the Magician _could_ turn cream into butter. He could also turn cream into artisan cheeses. In fact, the year he was apprenticed to Nikos, he won the 4-H (Heads, Hands, Hearts and Halberds) Club cheese making medal at the village fair. The judges had described it as a delightful Stilton-like charmer, with an elegant finish.

Nikos happened to be one of the judges. Wandering mages were always welcome in the outlying villages, because they generally knew the latest gossip and were handy with spells for toothaches and nostrums for indigestion. Locals liked to show their appreciation by presenting them with honorary titles and decorative brass keys to the township. Earlier that week, Nikos had been given a doctorate in Pie-ology and was now currently serving a recurring term as Annual Dairy Czar. 

"You know, the cheese is nice, but I think the crackers really make it," he said thoughtfully, helping himself to another wedge of blue marbled cheese.

Schmendrick, the son of a celebrated local baker, had made the flat, savory crackers himself, but was too star-struck to volunteer that information. Nikos! Who had parted the floodwaters of the Guern the year Schmendrick had been born, saving the harvest and Uncle Bargle's prized Angora goats, who had woken a cursed princess by whistling six sweet notes and seven sour, who had a line of quality wands available for reasonable prices. Nikos, famed in song and story for his way with the ladies and his palate for wine. Nikos, right here in this very village, on his way to consult with other mages at a convention center in fabled Atlantic City.

"You're Coleen's boy, I think."

Schmendrick could only nod.

"Do you think she'd give me her recipe? I'm throwing a party next month and these would be just the thing."

Incapable of even shaking his head, Schmendrick's eyes filled with tears. Friar Jamjar, standing at Nikos' shoulder, hastily whispered to Nikos of Schmendrick's mother, a startled mule, and a tragic wagon accident.

"Well, it's a damned shame about your mother, kid. She was a real knock out. Are you staying with your uncle?"

Uncle Bargle ran a bed and breakfast that did a comfortable trade in the sale of unbleached goat wool and organic pastries--or had, until his sister had died. Schmendrick had worked hard to be helpful in the kitchen, focusing on butter churning, as his Halberd instructor had told him that it developed and defined the upper body, but his cakes always fell. People couldn't seem to warm up to his pita pockets or the flat, frosted, jam-filled tarts he produced in lieu of popovers and Irish soda breads, and business had been falling off.

"Yes, sir," Schmendrick whispered hoarsely.

"Hm. It seems to me that Bargle kept a good cellar, and that his wine would go quite nicely with this cheese of yours. What do you say we drop by and have a light supper?"

He nodded eagerly, his thick forelock of hair flapping against his eyes and causing him to flinch and squint.

"Tell me a little about yourself--Rick, is it?" 

Schmendrick might have gladly continued on all his life as Rick the Magician, but Friar Jamjar was again close at hand with details.

"Oh, _Shmen_ drick, that's right." Nikos strode beside him on the cobbled path to the town square, absently juggling two peach tarts and a heavy brass ring jingling with countless honorary Keys as they went. Schmendrick, mesmerized by the graceful one-handed action, walked into a fencepost. Nikos snapped the fingers of his free hand and unseen forces set Schmendrick back on his feet, dusting the clothes he was rapidly growing out of and combing his untidy hair. "Tell me about yourself, then. Still in school, I assume? Are you on the basketball team, that sort of thing?"

Before Schmendrick could ask what basketball was, Jamjar, who had invited himself along at the mention of wine, provided Nikos with a brief summary of Schmendrick's achievements: the crackers, the cheese, the time he'd fallen in the horse trough, the other time he'd fallen in the horse trough.

Paralyzed with mortification, Schmendrick could only stand there, cheeks stinging.

"You're kind of quiet, aren't you?" There was a suggestion of a withheld smile around his eyes, but Nikos patted his shoulder kindly and continued. "Your mother used to say that I talked enough for two or three people, so I guess it all balances out."

Schmendrick, who was full of so many questions he was practically choking on them, finally burst out, "How did you know my mother?"

Nikos waved vaguely.

"After the flood a few years back, I stuck around town for a while. Helping dig fortifications, that sort of thing. Don't get me wrong, this is a nice little place and all, but I can't be coming back every time it rains, you know? I stayed on at the bed and breakfast. Your uncle insisted. He _really_ loves those goats."

His uncle did love his goats. Especially Bettina, his best milker. Schmendrick was also fond of her; he planned to name the cheese after her--she had won him the medal, after all.

"I really thought there might be more to you, kid. Colleen was really something else. But hey, you're young yet. And you make a damned fine cracker. Want to sign on with me for a while? I don't have a cook at the moment, and my current apprentice is studying for his finals. I'll feed you, maybe get you some new boots. We can send what you earn back to your uncle until he can get someone to help out around here. What do you say?"

Schmendrick shrank from accepting yet another job to fail at, knowing what Nikos did not: the crackers had been an attempt at brioche. What he _really_ wanted to do was throw himself to his knees and beg Nikos to take him as an apprentice, but he had no idea if magic was something you could learn, like differential equations, or something innate, like eye color or perfect pitch. He threw a look of mute pleading at Friar Jamjar, who shrugged a little and said, "Look, here's the thing: he wants to be just like you when he grows up."

Nikos frowned and then glanced at Schmendrick, who was nodding fervently.

"Wait a minute, you can _hear_ him?" Nikos' bushy brow was pinched in confusion.

"He--He was my first year teacher," Schmendrick explained. "He died." Jamjar, known for his love of mushrooms, had picked a few _Amanita phalloides_ while hunting _Volvariella volvacea_ , and suffered for it. "But I could still see him."

Nikos leaned down to peer into Schmendrick's face.

"That _is_ most of it, being a wizard--seeing and listening. The rest is technique."

"Technically, he summoned me to guide his mother to the Better World," Jamjar sighed. "I've been bound to him ever since."

"I _said_ I was sorry," Schmendrick muttered, folding his arms.

"Really?" Nikos looked delighted. "You summoned a spirit?"

"I didn't _mean_ to," Schmendrick admitted. "I just--I really wanted to see my mother."

Nikos patted his shoulder again.

"Of course you did. Only natural." He turned and addressed Jamjar in a formal tone. "Spirit, your bonds are broken--seek what peace you may."

Jamjar beamed with relief, and was still waving cheerfully when the next breeze scattered him like the fluff from a dandelion clock.

"There's a spark in you, after all. Now. Let's see what can be done about teaching you how to use it."

*

After ten years of rather heartbreakingly valiant effort, Nikos finally admitted that training Schmendrick was beyond even him.

"I think you've got the chops, kid--somewhere. I mean, you brought that little girl's kitten back--granted, as a tiger cub, but hey. And that gray thing? That came from somewhere heavy, I don't mind telling you. But let's face facts. It's been ten years and you can barely brew beer, let alone a Tempest in a Teapot." Although Schmendrick could recite every line of "Nikos, Paul. Chapter 1, Lesson 1: Simple Storms for All Occasions. Magic the Nikos Way. Ed. Mabruck, Reginald. Beagle: Greenwood, 1065. 8-22.", he had never yet mastered the simplest incantation.

At 23, Schmendrick was still as awkward and gangly as a boy, and he could go weeks without shaving the fine fuzz on his chin. Nikos, who had always been very fond of him, could no longer ignore his profound incompetence.

"It's nothing personal, but I've got a waiting list of apprentices longer than your arm, and we both know you're not getting anywhere."

Schmendrick had long dreaded this day, and could only nod, stomach clenching.

"So here, have a cookie. I baked 'em myself. Your mother's recipe."

With an obedience long ingrained, Schmendrick took a snickerdoodle from the offered plate and listlessly took a bite. It was a very good cookie, crisp yet chewy, and he swallowed with enthusiasm, cramming the rest of the cookie into his mouth and reaching for another one.

"I think one's all you need, kid. Let me tell you why: that was an enchanted cookie."

"Enchanted?" He marveled at the crust of cinnamon clinging to his long fingers.

"Yeah, yeah, enchanted. It's kind of what I do. But listen, here's the deal. You're a late bloomer, I just know it. But I'd rather you not bloom when you're in your 90s, okay? It would bug me. So from this moment on, you're 23 until you get it all figured out."

With that, Nikos gave him five large and a bone-creaking hug and sent him on his way.

It would be 56 years before Schmendrick met the unicorn, and another ten before Schmendrick summoned the spirit of Nikos to ask for his mother's recipe. Schmendrick had spent a lifetime learning what Nikos had already taught him: that pitiless experience is the only taskmaster, that wisdom can never be taught, but only learned, and that the secret of a really good cookie is letting the butter soften to room temperature before folding it into the batter.


End file.
